By Marco Del Monte
This week I would like to offer you a slightly different reflection than usual. Generally, in my commentaries on the Parashah, I try to explore the teachings of the Torah in greater depth through the interpretations of our Sages. This time, however, I would like to share a small journey of thought with you, born during one of my study sessions.
The considerations that emerged from this are personal, certainly debatable, and do not pretend to reveal the hidden intentions of a rule. But one of the things I love most about studying the Torah is precisely this opportunity to allow oneself to be surprised: to pierce the seemingly dry surface of a legal provision and catch a glimpse of meanings that go far beyond its practical function. A few days ago, while studying the Mishnah, I came across a passage in tractate Peah (3:6) that forced me to pause several times. Rabbi Akiva, within the framework of the rule of giving the Peah, the corner of the field, addresses certain issues relating to land ownership, introducing terms such as Prozbul, Kinyan Agav, Metaltelim, goods with or without Achrayut. A technical language made of rules and legal mechanisms seemingly far removed from spirituality. To understand them, I had to delve into a fundamental distinction in Jewish law: that between immovable property, such as land, and movable property, such as money, objects and goods. Lands are also defined as assets endowed with Achrayut, that is, financial guarantee, because they can remain encumbered for the payment of a debt. The Mishnah teaches that through a procedure called Kinyan Agav, literally "acquisition along with", it is possible to "transfer movable goods together with a plot of land". The surprising thing is that those objects do not necessarily have to be on the land itself: they can even be very far away!
Yet, under certain legal conditions, the acquisition of the land also makes it possible to acquire those objects. Then I encountered the Prozbul, an institution introduced by Hillel to allow the collection of certain loans even after the sabbatical year, the Shemitah, which would normally entail the remission of debts. In this case too, generally, it is required that the debtor own a piece of land, even a tiny one. I asked myself: why land in particular?
The halachic explanations are precise, but an image was beginning to take shape in my mind: land, unlike movable goods, possesses a character of stability. It is something that remains firm, a point of reference to which movable and distant realities can be legally linked.
I imagined a small stake driven into the earth, to which very long threads were tied, like a "silver cord". No matter how far they reach, they all remain connected to that stable point.
And it was then that my thoughts turned to Parashat Bereshit.
«The Lord G-d formed man from the dust of the earth and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life».
Man, Adam, takes his name from the Adamah, the earth. A creature drawn from matter, to whom G-d entrusts something that transcends it infinitely: the Neshamah, the soul.
I liked to imagine the body as that tiny plot of land in Kinyan Agav: something material and limited, but capable of housing an immensely greater spiritual treasure: The soul. Almost a Pikadon, a precious deposit entrusted to our safekeeping. Delving deeper into this image, I discovered something surprising. Rabbi Nathan of Breslov, in the Likutey Halachot, writes: «Since all the movable goods (metaltelim) of the world represent sparks of souls» (Choshen Mishpat, Hilchot Chezkat Karkaot 3).
And from there my thoughts continued to travel, until they reached the ladder that Jacob sees in a dream: «A ladder set on the ground with its top reaching into the sky». The ladder reaches the sky precisely because it is set on the ground. Without that base, it would be suspended in a void. Perhaps man too must learn to be like this: with his feet firmly rooted in his responsibilities and daily actions, but with his gaze and aspirations turned upwards. And perhaps we should remember this even when we study those numerous and meticulous rules that seem to govern every moment of our existence: a Mitzvah means first and foremost "commandment", but the Sages also link it to the concept of union, bond. Every precept, even the most technical and seemingly mechanical one, can become a thread that binds us to HaKadosh Baruch Hu, transforming the smallest earthly gesture into an encounter between heaven and earth.
Thinking back on my study, I realised that perhaps the most beautiful message wasn't even about the land, but about the way we look at things. How many times do we dismiss as insignificant what we do not understand? How many times do we mistake complexity for aridity, or difficulty for lack of meaning? Or, even worse, the simplicity of reading with simplicity of meaning. Perhaps this too is one of the most precious teachings of the study of the Torah: learning not to stop at the surface, not to confuse what we do not yet understand or what we deem too simple with what is devoid of meaning. Because sometimes, right behind a seemingly dry rule, reflections can hide that are capable of changing our way of looking at the world.
I had opened the Mishnah to understand how objects could be acquired through a piece of land. I did not imagine that this study would lead me to question how man, created from the earth, can learn to reach the sky.
Shabbat Shalom
Translated from the Italian with Google Gemini. The Italian text is the original.